Lunar Thoughts
by RanchanGRNL
Summary: Flipping through a journal can give you an insight on a persons inner thoughts and feelings. What they say may not be what they think. Luna’s journal reveals more about her then even her “friends” may know.


Library.

People are whispering around me, not really keeping their words to themselves. No one really notices that I'm here, not that I really care. When someone catches me out of the corner of their eye they only comment on the fact that I'm crazy and then go on with their conversation. I'm not of much importance, but it's all right. Their conversations usually aren't interesting. Sometimes I'll over hear some gossip who was caught snogging whom in the Ravenclaw common room, who received the highest mark in Transfiguration that day, and which house team was going to win the next Quidditch match. Rather boring. I have more important things to dedicate my time to then to listen to such trite babblings.

"Luna."

I think someone called my name, but I don't look up from the book I'm reading intently. I Alchemy in the Modern World /I . It has nothing to do with what I'm supposed to be studying of course although Ancient Runes has come in handy when translating some of the more dated texts.

"Luna," the voice calls again.

This time I look up and see the face of Ginny Weasley. I smile. "Hello," I say, my voice airy and distant. She sits down next to me and smiles. I notice that it is out of pity that she smiles at me. I ignore this.

"You don't have to worry about those boys," she says.

I blink, not really having any idea what she is talking about. "Boys?" I say.

She smiles again, another look that says she worries about me, though why I'm not quite sure. "If they pick on you again, just let me know. I'll set them straight." Her face is locked in determination and she balls her fist, although I don't think she notices the gesture. She looks so much like her older brother, Ronald Weasley, that the expression seems to morph their faces into one. I wonder if she has ever been told this?

"You look like your brother," I say plainly, pointing out the similarity. She jerks her head, clearly taken aback. My question had been answered. Apparently she had never been told of the striking resemblance.

"What?"

"Your brother, Ronald," I say again. "He makes that same face when he defends one of his friends or family."

Ginny raises her eyebrow, curious as to why I would make the connection. I smile at the fact that she's confused. I seem to have that effect on people and it never fails to amuse me. I know she's not one of my friends. That is to say she's not unfriendly towards me, but she's just a companion; an acquaintance. I have yet to find that person who is not put off by my seemingly random comments. This is mostly because they don't realize that what I say isn't random at all.

I turn my gaze back to my book, leaving Ginny dumbstruck. She composes herself, her face forming back into that smile she had shown me. "Oh that," Ginny says, waving the comment off as if it was an offensive gnat. "Must just be a family trait. That git and I have nothing in common."

I smile at her and say nothing. That sentence alone shows how much brother and sister are alike.

Ginny puts her hand over mine, patting it reassuringly. I want to tell her how I dislike when people touch me without my permission, but I don't. This is Ginny and while I may not consider her a friend, she considers me one.

"I'm serious, Luna. Don't listen to what those boys say to you. You're not Loony."

Ginny is nice, but she doesn't understand. I don't get angry when they call me names because most of the time they are correct. I am Loony. Lovegoods for centuries have been called nutty, crazy, and insane. My father was dubbed "Loony Louie" while at Hogwarts, so I feel as if I'm carrying on the family tradition. If they didn't call me names I would be worried. Besides, I don't pay attention to those types of people.

"How are things with Dean?" I ask conversationally.

Once again she looks surprised at my words. Not many people know about her break-up with Michael Corner. I know because I overheard Michael writing in his journal. He has the habit of speaking aloud when he writes.

"How…how do you…"

I flash her a secret smile and bundle up my books. The library will be closing in a few minutes. "Thank you, Ginny," I say sincerely. "I'll see you in Charms."

Walking away, her eyes follow me. I sigh. I like Ginny. She would be such a nice girl to get to know, but I know that look even if I can't see it at the moment. Bewilderment. Just like everyone else. For once I wish that someone would understand.

Summer.

I The Quibbler /I is in an uproar. Everyone is asking me about what happened in the Ministry. I'm expected to give lengthy and detailed descriptions. Mostly they want to know what Harry Potter is like. They don't want to hear what I have to say so I make up a lot of what I tell. Heroic, fearless, a person who laughs in the face of danger—that's the Harry Potter people want to know. An intangible figurehead, someone they can blindly put their faith into without real concern over his life just so long as he defeats the bad guy.

Harry. There is so much I want to talk to him about. He seems so sad and scared which fuels his bravery. Losing his godfather must have hurt him so very much. I do so hope that my words brought some comfort to him, but I doubt that they had any effect. I fear for him. The look on his face was more pity for me. As much as I regret saying this, Harry isn't my friend either. Another companion whom I'd fight beside, but nothing more. Even so, I find myself worrying about him.

Dad is proud of me for fighting alongside Harry. He says that Mum would be proud as well. Somehow I think that Mum expects more of me instead of fighting alongside someone. Or maybe that's what I think. It's getting so difficult to remember what Mum was like that I can't say what she would or wouldn't approve of. Like snowflakes on a photograph, she is slowly being covered up in my mind by my own thoughts and feelings that at times I forget. Do I really remember what she looked like? Can I accurately recall her voice, her smell, her touch? Am I truly hearing her words when I look up at the sky and count the stars, or are they my own words that I associate with her?

I can't ask Dad any of this. Only once did I ask him if he remembered the last time Mum kissed him. He got all quiet and locked himself into his cluttered study. The next morning he left on a month long expedition into the Andes Mountains searching for a long lost text on the dwarves that mined quicksilver. I stayed with one of Dad's secretaries, Alice Pryce. She took me dress shopping, bought me dolls, and taught me how to tie ribbons in my hair without having them fall out. Needless to say I never made the mistake of bringing Mum up to Dad again.

Worse yet, I think I might remind him of her. Perhaps that's why he goes away on such long trips.

Dad calls me. "Luna girl, tell your story once more so that the part-time writers can hear it first hand."

I sigh but smile. I'm greeted by the jovial sound of my father's voice as he introduces me to one of the financial backers of the magazine. "This is my daughter," he says, love and pride in his voice. "She defended the wizarding world from You-Know-Who."

All the men in the office gasp in awe. I look up at my father and grin. I know he wants me to regale my dashing tale once more, and it's all right. I love Dad and I would do anything for him.

Halloween.

No one really dresses up anymore. When I was younger, Mum would conjure up some butterfly wings that would flutter on their own. There are pictures of me chasing a chocolate frog around the house. I found them in Dad's study once. What would make a good costume for a fancy dress party? Not that I would be invited to one, but it's nice to think of such things. I think I would go as a Doxie or maybe a Nargle.

My thoughts were interrupted when I walked by the loo. Someone was crying in the men's toilet. I visited Moaning Myrtle. She seemed to know something that I didn't. Usually she would talk to me about her old life and what it was like living in the U-bend. Myrtle told me all about Harry and his two friends coming into her bathroom during my first year. She liked to talk about that a lot. It made her feel important, which is good for her. Being one of the younger ghosts in the castle must be rather difficult.

"I met a boy," she told me, her voice smug.

"Oh?" I said, drying my hands on one of the napkins.

"Yes. He didn't have nice things to say about you though." She stuck out her tongue and blew a raspberry that sounded vaguely like Peeves. After a while I guess even ghost personalities rub off.

"Not many people do." I turn to leave and I hear her giggle behind me. I know I shouldn't have turned around and asked her what was funny, but I did anyway.

"Oh, nothing," she said, her voice airy but I can tell she's enjoying herself. "Just that he said I was the only girl in school he could talk to. The only one that I listens /I . I told him that you were a good listener, and he laughed and called you one of 'Potter's groupies' and that 'no bug-eyed lunatic' would ever be more then an expendable casualty."

My back stiffened. Expendable? A horrible image appeared in my mind: falling in battle in a deserted place, alone and forgotten. No one knew I had been there in the first place so of course, no one would notice if I had died.

"How long did it take before someone found your body?" I asked coldly, and quickly wished I hadn't. I ran from the bathroom before I could hear Myrtle's reply. The next week no one could walk through the hallway for she had flooded the girl's loo. I didn't talk to her after that. Luckily, Myrtle didn't tell anyone of my outburst. Still, I was surprised that the words came out of my mouth. I usually have a good handle on those emotions.

Library.

I'm reading that book again, the one on Alchemy. The pages are worn. I'm thinking about asking Madam Pince if I can just purchase the book since I'm the only person to have looked at it regularly. I won't though. She's stingy about her books. They are precious to her and would never let one go. I sigh and concentrate on a rather difficult text. It seems to be asking for a plant I've never heard of before. I walk over to the section on rare botany. Someone bumps into me.

"Sorry," we say at the same time. I turn my head and smile.

"Hello, Neville," I say, my voice sincere.

"H-hi, Luna," he stutters. We both reach for the same book. He pulls his hand back and his face colors. Why? I'm not sure. It's just a book, and it isn't as if it's unusual for Neville to be taking out a book entitled I Mystical Properties of /I Mimbeltona I and other Related Species /I . I pull out the book and hand it out to him.

"I hear it has a rather extensive chapter on memory," I say, smiling.

He looks at me perplexed. "How…how did you…" he whispers. I shrug and walk back to my seat. The soles of his shoes make swishing noises on the stone floor. I wonder when the last time he bought new shoes for himself. It's a strange thought, but I picture worn penny loafers with holes in the rubber. The image seems to fit Neville.

I sit down and begin reading, skipping over the difficult paragraph. Neville sits across from me. He's biting his lip, which I recognize as a nervous habit. What does he have to be nervous about?

"Luna," he whispers again. I look up without saying a word. "Are…are you a…Seer?"

I laugh. Out loud. Madam Pince looks over at me and glares, but I can't stop. Tears are falling down my cheeks. Me? A clairvoyant? Sure, I enjoy talking to Professor Trelawny, but that's because she's on good terms with my Dad. She's one of more prominent subscribers and sometimes writes the horoscopes, though under the pseudonym Muriel Chatterly. After a few moments I calm down.

"I'm sorry," I apologize to Neville, who looks like he wished he could run and hide. "But what made you think that?"

"You knew that I wanted this book for the chapter on memory enhancers," he replies looking sheepish. "I just assumed that you…read my mind or got a flash when you touched my hand." He looks so embarrassed, but I don't say anything about that. No one likes their flaws pointed out to them.

I smile at him kindly. "My Dad went into St. Mungo's over Christmas," I explain. "He said he ran into your Grandmother. Very nice lady, but rather strict. She seemed to want to talk a lot about her son and her grandson."

Neville's face became stony. "Oh," he grunts. It looks as if he's prepared for an onslaught of jokes at his expense. "So you know about my Mum and Dad." His head is higher and it looks as if he's daring me to say something.

"Yes," I reply, meeting his gaze. "That book you took out I've read before. I just assumed that you would want to research memory. There's also a chapter on leafy foxglove. It keeps Needle-nosed Hoggles away." I reach over and flip to the chapter, pointing to the title page. Neville continues to stare at me. It begins to make me feel uncomfortable.

"You're not going to…laugh at me?" he says.

"Are you going to laugh at me?" I say quickly.

"No," he says. "Why would I laugh at you?"

"I don't know. Why would I laugh at you?"

I look back down at my book, but I feel strangely serene. There is something about Neville that makes me feel as if we have something in common. Out of the corner of my eye I see him smile and look down at his own book. He, too, must have felt the same thing.

Two outcasts. For the first time I think I know what it's like to have a friend.

Funeral.

I take a seat in one of the middle rows. I didn't know Dumbledore personally. He approached me once this year, handing me a scroll of parchment to deliver to Harry Potter. His kind face and gentle smile reminded me of my grandfather. He died when I was younger, but I remember small things about him. His wrinkled hands—the skin was so very soft, like satin. I wanted my skin to feel like that, but I guessed it was something that only came with age.

I look around me as the seats fill up. Harry and Ginny sit up front. Hermione and Ron sit behind them. I am tempted to smile and wave at them, but their somber expressions tell me that it would be inappropriate. All around me, people are sniffling and dabbing their eyes with bits of cloth. That's when I realize. My eyes are dry.

I'm not crying.

For some reason, I feel panicked. Why am I not crying? I think back and realize with a start—I didn't cry at my own Mother's funeral. I haven't cried since that day seven years ago. Not in sadness. Tears have fallen down my face, but only in mirth. Never because I was upset or distraught. I look around, trying to see if anyone notices. What would happen if they saw that I hadn't shed a tear?

I contemplate conjuring tears. I pull my wand from my ear and point it at my face.

"Trying to hex your nose off?" someone asks softly. I look up, and I see Neville taking a seat next to me.

"I can't cry," I tell him, my voice sounded strange even to me. Curiously Neville smiled. He took my hand in his.

"It's ok. Neither can I. Besides, I don't think Professor Dumbledore would want us to cry. Just behind the veil, isn't he?"

I blink at Neville. For once I feel put off and taken aback. He just smiles serenely at me. How strange it is to be on the opposite side of that smile? I open my mouth to say something back, but Neville just squeezes my hand.

"I know. I miss him too."

I turn my head back to the funeral pyre. I watch as the flames burst up and the shrouded body is encased in white marble. For a brief moment the crowd is hushed. It's as if the death is final. Up until this point people hoped that this was all a bad dream. Now it was clear that he wasn't coming back.

After the funeral, I walk to the edge of the lake . Neville follows me. I begin throwing rocks, trying to make them skip. The giant squid doesn't like that very much.

"I heard that they may shut Hogwarts down," I say.

Neville stays quiet. There's something about having someone just listening patiently that seems alien to me. Maybe it's because no one really seemed interested in what I had to say for an extended period of time.

"I think I may come back. If the castle stays vacant, Cappybears will take over."

I hear Neville chuckle behind me. It's a soft, soothing sound. He walks over and puts a hand on my shoulder, chucking a rock. It fails to skip even once. "I'll come back with you. I can't let the Cappybears eat my only friend."

"Oh, they don't eat people. They just like to tickle them to…" I stop and stare at him.

That's when I realized that when he called me friend, I felt the same way. Grinning, I grab his hand and run over to the tomb. There we say our last goodbyes to Dumbledore, a man who had been a friend and mentor to everyone he met. I look from the white marble and then to the pale skin of Neville's face and realize that this feels right. I've never known what it's like to have friends. Companions, acquaintances, passers-by: everyone seemed to want something from me. I didn't mind. I just gave what I could and pretended I knew what it was like. But Neville—he's just like me. Someone who lives on the outside and constantly is looking into the window wishing that he was with the ones in the limelight. Now here we are, standing together in front of the tomb and notice that even with the world falling around us, we at least have each other.

We both have a friend.


End file.
